


Worry

by LexiCon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Holmes family headcannons, Little ball of Angst, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Sad Sherlock, Tired Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LexiCon/pseuds/LexiCon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all his years of knowing him, John Watson had never once seen his friend like this. It was alarming and he didn't know what to do about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worry

**Author's Note:**

> So whilst packing to move to my new house, I spotted an old Sherlock one shot I'd written over two years ago laying around in a notebook I'd not seen for ages. Thought I go ahead and type it up and post it since it's unlikely to survive this next move (I'm getting rid of a lot a notebooks- my room is overflowing with them.....)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this piece of darkness from the recesses of my mind :)

Worry

  
It started off so slowly. Nobody noticed it. Not even Mycroft, who kept a near constant vigil on them, predicted it.

Sure John had had his suspicions, but hell, it was Sherlock for crying out loud! If the man didn't want you to know something, then by god, you wouldn't know it.

But not even Sherlock could hide forever, and one lazy Friday night, everything blew up in his face.

Sherlock was sulking on the sofa. His eyes were closed and his hand were folded in a prayer like gesture. His phone was sitting on the coffee table beside him, vibrating every few minutes with a text.

John sat in his arm chair across from the detective, reading a novel. He'd already read it many times before but it was one of his favorites. Even if Sherlock claimed that the plot was cliched and the characters were so two-dimensional, they might as have been paper themselves.

He looked up when Sherlock's phone vibrated for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Sherlock was still stuck in his trance, ignoring the phone completely.

He sighed and shut the book.

“Sherlock?” he said and scowled when he received no reply. “Sherlock your phone is going off.”

“Obviously,” mumbled his flatmate. John glared at him again.

“Well, aren't you going to answer it?” he asked.

“...no.” John blinked at the reply, unsure if what he'd just heard was correct.

“You're not going to answer?” he asked incredulously. “But what if it's Lestrade with a case?” he said. Sherlock didn't reply. John frowned.

“You've already turned down five case this week.” he said. He was extremely confused by the way his friend was acting. Sherlock had his stroppy moments to be sure, but to turn down six cases in a row. That was bad even for him.

“Sherlock-” he started. He was cut off by a growl coming from the detective. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the sofa. He glared at John and took his phone from the table. With lips pursed in irritation, he scrolled through the messages- and one missed call- he'd received in the passed hour.

“Double homicide, west London,” he read aloud. “Man and woman; students, going by their ID's”

John listened intently as Sherlock read off the current case. It sounded like a fairly interesting one, but he could tell by the way Sherlock was reading it, that this case too would be a no-go.

“Dull,” his friend grumbled. “Again. Dull John. They're all so fucking dull!” Sherlock threw the phone on the carpet. The force of the throw was enough to cause the case to pop off.

He pressed the heel of his palm into the his eyes. “What's the point anymore?” he whispered.

John was honestly surprised at the outburst. Sherlock was certainly theatrical at times-well most of the time- but this was different than his usual, “I'm-bored-pay-attention-to-me” rant. He'd even cursed and that in itself was worrisome. Sherlock never cursed.

There was a tone in his friend's voice that John couldn't place. It was on he'd never associated with the detective.

“Sherlock,” he started, only to have Sherlock abruptly stand up and stalk off toward his bedroom.

“I'm going to bed. Goodnight John.” he said.

John sat there, unable to comprehend what had just taken place. Had Sherlock really just said that he was going to go to bed? The ex army doctor blinked. What on earth was going on?! Sherlock rarely ever went to bed of his own volition, he usually ran his body into the ground and collapsed on the sofa.

His own phone buzzed in his pocket. He jumped slightly and moved around his chair to get access to it. The message was from DI Inspector Lestrade.

_“What's wrong with Sherlock?” it read._

John sighed and tapped out a reply.

_“I have no idea....”_

~ ~ ~

Sherlock laid on his bed with his arm crossed over his eyes. He hadn't bothered to turn the light on. He hadn't even bothered changing. He'd been wearing the same pajamas for the last two days. John would eventually make him change... if he ever came out.

The detective bit his lip and curled into a ball in the middle of the bed. He wanted to make himself as small as possible. He waned to hide forever and not have to face John or Lestrade. Not after what he'd done.

He sniffed as his eyes stung. He'd been so stupid. And now everything was ruined. And he couldn't blame it on anyone else except his own stupid self and his own stupid brain.

What use would he be to anyone when they found out? And they would too, if they hadn't already and that would be that.

He'd failed and now no one would want to be around him at all. Not that there many who wanted to be around him anyway. But he would lose John.... and that would be a fate worse than death...

~ ~ ~

Sherlock didn't appear the next day. Or the next....or even the day after that. Every morning, John knocked softly on his his flatmate's door

“Sherlock, I'm off to the surgery,” he said and every morning he'd get no reply. “Um, just text me if you need anything, alright?”

Sighing, he walked out the door and return five hours later to a flat unchanged.

By nine o'clock on the fourth morning, John had gotten seriously worried for his friend. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to go days without talking to anyone, he always made a marginal effort to stay in the same room as John so that the doctor knew that he was at least breathing.

This silence though, was almost eerie in a way. Like the outburst on Friday, this was highly uncharacteristic of Sherlock and it had John all the more worried.

The ex-soldier paced around the living, at a loss for what to do. He'd already called in at the surgery, they had two other doctors so he wasn't particularly concerned about the coverage. What he was concerned about was the man in the next room who refused to see or talk to anyone. It just didn't make any sense! He pulled at his hair in frustration.

Sherlock had turned down a total of 12 case- that he knew of- from the yard and the site. Nearly all of them, John would have considered at least a 7 or an 8. A couple he was almost certain his flatmate would think a 9 or even a 10. In fact, with each case dismissed, the detective seemed to withdraw more and more.

John stopped in the middle of the living room, staring in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom door. He made a decision then. This couldn't-wouldn't- go on, and if he couldn't get Sherlock to talk, well, he knew someone who could.

He searched out his mobile from the depths of the black hole that was their flat. Scrolling through his contacts, he smiled grimly when he came to the one he wanted.

He pressed “send” and waited, knowing that other would pick up and praying that he wasn't busy.

He heard a “click” as the call connected and shortly after a soft voice said, _“Mycroft Holmes.”_

~ ~ ~

The knock sounded loud in the near silent flat. John jumped up from where he'd been brooding on the sofa. And by brooding, I mean, glowering at the skull on the mantel because it refused to answer any of his questions.

He went to answer the door quickly before the fact that he was angry at a skull for not talking to him, sunk in.

He opened the door to reveal a tall slender man sporting a dark gray suit and a black umbrella. John wordlessly stepped aside and held the door open so that the older man could walk through.

“Sorry to bother you,” he apologized. “I hope you weren't too busy.” It felt weird to be the one contacting Sherlock's brother. Usually he was on the other side of these chats. And they usually involved him being stuffed into a car and driven to some obscure warehouse on the outskirts of the city.

He led Mycroft into the living room.

“On the contrary, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said, taking a seat on the sofa. “I am glad you pointed this out to me.” A deafening silence filled the space between the two men. John didn't know what to say to him.

“Um right...” he started awkwardly, sitting opposite him in his arm chair. “So, how _did_ you miss this?”

Mycroft looked slightly sheepish as he checked his nails for non-existent dirt. “Oh, I wouldn't say _'missed'_ exactly, Dr. Watson.” he said. “More like...underestimated its importance...”

John raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he said. “I thought you worried about him constantly.” The doctor couldn't help the small grin that spread across his lips.

If looks could kill, John was quite positive that Mycroft would have incinerated him on the spot.

“My concern for my brother varies, Dr. Watson.” the elder Holmes answered shrewdly with his eyes blazing.

John knew it had been unfair of him. But maybe he could get Mycroft's help by insinuating he didn't actually care for Sherlock.

His intentions must have shown on his face because Mycroft scoffed.

“There was no need to act so childishly,” he sniffed. John felt his cheeks color slightly.

Properly chastised, he sighed. “Look, I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm just worried for Sherlock right now, and he's not talking to me so I just figured-”

“That if you, his best friend, the one person that he trusts the most, could not get him to speak, then, me, his loathed older brother could.”

John winced. Well when he put it that way...

He'd completely forgotten about the 'feud' between the brothers. But he'd thought that maybe, just this once, Mycroft could put it behind him for the sake of Sherlock.

The older man sighed. “I give you no guarantee, John,” he said. “But I will do my best.”

John nodded. That was all he could hope for.

~ ~ ~

The knock on his door wasn't very loud but it was calm and sure.

Sherlock knew exactly who it was. Like he hadn't been able to hear the hushed voices of his brother and flatmate just on the other side. Honestly, John was horrid at being sneaky.  
He couldn't help the small smirk that crossed his lips. He was surprised that it'd taken this long for Mycroft to show up. The man was clearly getting slow.

Sherlock was laying in his bed, the blankets and sheets underneath him. He'd been in the same position for close to three days now. Or so he figured.

He wasn't sleeping much. Sleep was dull and waste. He wasn't hungry. Food was idiotic. He didn't want to solve any crimes, there wasn't anything for him out there anymore. Everything was dull and utterly pointless.

He cracked open on closed eye at the sound of the door creaking open.

“I think you'll find the kitchen is in the other direction, Brother Dear.” he said casually by way of greeting.

“The door closed behind the other man. “And a good day to you as well, Brother Dear,” he said. Sherlock grunted in reply.

Silence permeated the room like a plague. Eventually, Mycroft shifted slightly and cleared his throat.

“Dr. Watson tell me that you've been spectacularly inactive for the past few days.”

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't need to. It was clear that his brother already knew what his reply would be.

“Sherlock, you cannot stay in this room forever.”

The detective opened both eyes and pursed his lips. “Go away Mycroft,” he snapped. “Your opinion is completely unwanted.”

He'd been hoping that his tone held enough venom to shoo the man away, because really he didn't have the energy to fight him off.

Mycroft didn't move. Ah well, there went that hope. Fine, he'd just ignore him until he left.

“The inspector is doing fine, Sherlock,” said Mycroft suddenly.

The air in the room became ice cold.

“I know that he's fine,” said Sherlock stiffly.

Mycroft smiled gently at his brother. He walked over to the bed and knelt down beside it. Very rarely did the older man put himself in this position and to see him in it now brought back memories of a childhood past and two little boys who could only rely on each other.

“It was not your fault, Sherlock,” he continued. “Gregory is an officer of the law. He knows the risks. You cannot hold yourself responsible for his fate. Especially since I doubt this will be the last time that he gets shot.”

“Don't say that word!” Sherlock spat, sitting up and glaring at his brother.  
It wasn't just anger that Mycroft saw in those eyes. No, there was also regret, vunerability and grief written in those silvery orbs as well.

Sherlock's fists were clenched in his lap, his face screwed up in anger, looking for all the world like a child who'd lost something precious to him.

“Don't _ever_ say that word again!” he said through gritted teeth.

His brother placed a hand on his arm. Sherlock didn't flinch away. He didn't have the strength to now. Not when the images of the inspector's blood staining the pavement and his too still body propped up against the building, in his mind once again. He wouldn't ever be able to escape them, he knew. It was him who had failed... just like he had also failed his-

“Detective inspector Lestrade is not Father, Sherlock.” Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock whimpered. He hated that his brother knew him so well. He drew his knees up to his chest and tried to make himself smaller. He didn't want to talk about it.

Mycroft took the sudden quiet as an invitation and sat on the bed beside him. He usually wouldn't have dared. But this was not a usual situation. This time he was not Big Brother who could get him all the toys and gadgets and passes that he so desired but Big Brother who had been there all of his life, watching over him and protecting him and making all of the bad thing disappear.

Mycroft could have kicked himself for not recognizing the signs of what was so clear. Thank god John had thought to call him.

Gingerly, he pulled the younger man into his arm, please when Sherlock didn't pull away but sunk deeper and clung to his lapels.

“It was not your fault, Little Brother. You are not too blame.” he whispered into the dark curls. “Lestrade will not leave you like Father. No one will leave you.” He could hear a few wet sniffles being smothered by the material and briefly wondered if he would have to change before going back to the office.

No matter, he simply hugged his brother tighter and said, “Don't shut up out, Sherlock. Don't shut _him_ out. You've had John worried sick about you.”

Sherlock nodded. He wanted to feel less guilty, wanted to feel like he wasn't a waste. He didn't know how though.

“Tell him.” Mycroft had guessed his thoughts once again. “John is a military man, he will understand.”

Sherlock nodded again. One word from Mycroft and all of a sudden, he needed to see his friend. Need to apologize and explain.

The brothers sat in silence with one another for a few moments longer. When they finally pulled apart, Mycroft shouted,

“Dr. Watson, I do believe he is ready for you.” 

A moment later the blonde doctor appeared in the door way, a worried expression on his face. He took one look at Sherlock's tear stain cheeks and red rimmed eyes and he melted.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he said coming over to him. He held his hands out to the stricken man who instantly fell into them.

The two friends hugged tightly. “You gave me such a scare you great tit!” John hissed into Sherlock “What did you think you were doing?”

Sherlock sniffed. “I-I'm sorry John.” he said.

Mycroft sat beside them for a minute or so before getting up and brushing himself off. “Well, I will leave you two, you have much to discuss.”

John's eyes widened slightly. Mycroft held a hand to stall him from getting up. “Ah, I'll see myself out.” John nodded. His eyes shone with gratitude.

As he left the room, he couldn't help but smile at the quiet voices talking behind him.

His brother had never quite recovered from their father's death when he was a child. Sargent Holmes had died in the middle of a simple survival training exercise when a stray bullet found itself in his lung.

Sherlock had thought that it was his fault because he had forgotten to phone him and tell him that he loved him.

He knew that his brother had come to see Lestrade as a sort of father figure and to see him hurt the same way had been a blow to his psyche.

He was glad that he had now had John to help him through it.

 

End

**Author's Note:**

> AHAHAHAH This is absolutely terrible! Ah well at least it's out of my bedroom!


End file.
